Title: Something to Talk About
Author: tigersilver
Characters: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Sex talk; wanking.
Word Count: 1,085

Prompt: hd_seasons – 13 Nights of Smut, Prompt #5 (something wicked; whisper)

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

Summary: Oh, this is so obvious! I simply had to!

"—ride my cock, Potter," Draco whispered, soft as velvet. Harry twitched. The long sofa before the hearth was his choice of comfort zone after work; it was here Malfoy always found him of an evening. Even on days like this, when something prevented him appearing on Harry's spark-resistant Floo rug and coming through for a spot of supper or a shared glass of wine. "And then I'll eat you, after; suck you right down my throat and swallow, Potter, till you scream like a girl. Are you listening?"

"Mmm-mmm," Harry mumbled, and got his hand where it needed to be. "More, Malfoy. Please, more."

Malfoy nodded, pleased, and Harry caught the green gleam of Floo fire off the bleached-out head of hair as he did so. "Brill. I'll have you chained, Potter…to the headboard, I think. You remember those handcuffs I bought off Wicked Wizards™?"

"Ah! Yeah! Uh-huh!" Harry yelped, squeezing his bits a little too hard, maybe, as he did remember. All that night came flooding back into the fuzzy recesses of his brain (wrists sliding in red velveted steel casings, melted chocolate licked from the well of his navel, strawberry lube that turned Malfoy's prick into a sweet, sweet torment, bound fast as he'd been, and unable to reach it—and oh, the fingerprints left on his skin after! Oh, Merlin!) "Malfoy!" he ground out, finding a rhythm at last, settling into to a steady wank.

"You want more, then, Potter? You'll be at my mercy, won't you? I'll close your Floo down and ward every crack—and lick yours, Potter. Top to bottom, and then rim you till you beg for me. Stick my tongue root-deep in that needy little arsehole of yours and eat you out. Fuck you silly with my mouth, Potter, and you'll writhe and squirm. Love it when you squirm, Potter—and those little sounds you make? Salazar! Are you nearly there, Potter?"

"Unnnh…" Harry groaned, nodding frantically. "Yessss!"

"Then go faster. It's me, remember? It's my hand and my mouth, all over you, Potter, and you can't escape me, and all you can feel is an ache inside where you want my dick in you, and that's all you can ever imagine wanting, that—right, Potter? Tell me!"

"Yesss!" Harry's lubed palm was crazy-quick, sliding up and down his dick. The plaid throw draped over him had slipped from his knees, heedlessly discarded, and Harry knew if he lifted his heavy head he'd see Malfoy there, peering through the Floo with that look on his face: the predatory one, the one that always took Harry unawares and left him oddly breathless. "Malfoy! Don't. Stop!"

"I'm in you now, Potter." Malfoy's voice was low, smooth and machine-gun rapid. It hammered at Harry's prostate the way his own fingers, stuffed in deep in the absence of long, manicured ones, drubbed away at himself, manipulating his prostate. He gasped almost silently, and Malfoy somehow heard him, leaning even more into the Floo till he nearly tumbled out onto Harry's carpet. He grinned, slow and sensual, and Harry couldn't suppress the instinctual shiver. "I've got my dick so deep in your arse, I'm in your mouth. I'm budging and shoving you up and down, hard enough to bang that thatch of yours into the wall, and I'm not stopping. Never stopping, Potter! It's all I want to do, is shag you. Shag you and shag you, till your arse is brim-full of me, and my cum, and you cum all over my chest, Potter—till you explode when I barely even touch you. Feel me, Harry? Feel me?"

"Draco! Gods—yes! Draco!" His cock pulsed—once, twice—in his hand and then went supernovae, leaving Harry a slumping sticky mess, subsiding into the cushions. "Ohh…yesss…oh!" he whispered. "Draco."

"Gah! Ha—!"

There was a choking noise on the other end of the Floo; he could see glimpses of Malfoy's head bent over his own lap, lips stretched thin in silent exclamation, and a bent elbow jerking furiously. Then only quiet, restrained huffs, whilst Malfoy pulled himself back together, waving a barely visible wand tip; cleaning himself and stuffing his long elegant cock back behind those silky sleep trousers he always wore. But Harry could've sworn he'd heard his name, though—that last burst of sound from Malfoy's wicked-good mouth had to have been "Harry!"

He grinned tiredly. Good show, that. They were on the same page, at least.

"See you tomorrow?"

"Bright and early, Potter," Malfoy drawled, raising that pointy arrogant chin of his so he could fix Harry with a piercing stare. "Don't oversleep this time, either, or I'll come through and wake you."

Harry rolled to his side, languid and at ease. He was still exhausted, but the tension was gone from his shoulders. His incipient headache had miraculously gone away, as well. He smiled.

"Mmmm," he hummed. "I may just, at that. Have a lie-in, I meant. I like the way you wake me, Malfoy. It's hardly a worthwhile threat, yeah?"

He could've sworn Malfoy winked, but that was probably a trick of the greenish Floo light lending a ghoulish air to that handsome face.

"Silly bugger. I'll see you, right? Make sure to bring along my usual brew and sweet bun with you or suffer the Itching Hex all through Staff Meeting, Potter. You're always so careless in the mornings."

Harry yawned, nodding. "Yes, Malfoy," he replied, making sure to sound long-suffering. "Dear," he added, just to signify he was no hen-pecked pushover.

"See that you do. G'night, Potter." Malfoy's tone was clipped and professional on the surface, same as it always was in the office, but underneath? Underneath was all melty caramel toffee-strings of promises and care. They wrapped 'round Harry's fuzzy soul like cashmere scarves, green-and-silver, and anchored him deep to his wonderfully comfortable couch.

"'Night, Draco." Harry managed, barely, before his eyes closed that final time and sleep overtook him.

But he wasn't so far gone he didn't feel the whisper of moist lips across his cheekbone—something wicked warm, something that lit the cockles of his heart to blazing fire—nor the fingertips sifting carefully through his sweaty fringe.

"Night, Harry," the tall, pale form on his hearth rug whispered, on the slightest wisp of air. "Love you, wanker."

And then the ghostly form of Malfoy was Vanished in a controlled flash of quiet emerald sparks and drifting soot, and Harry entered Dreamland grinning, a happy man indeed.

Fin